Impossible Year
by Breathe Artistic
Summary: Bucky and Steve had a tough go of it, being what they were to each other. They take one too many chances and Bucky pays the price. What follows are the most impossible years of their lives, each thinking they'll never see the other again.
1. Chapter 1

Ahahaha, hi.

Apparently I can't stop writing Bucky/Steve. So here's some more!

 **Please be warned about this first chapter. There is some strong, triggering language in this chapter. Please keep in mind that this takes place prior to Captain America: The First Avenger, so it's sometime in the late 1930's-early 1940's. The relationship between Bucky and Steve is taboo and unaccepted. There is some homophobic language in the first chapter. If it makes you uncomfortable, please feel free to skip this. Just a fair warning. I promise it doesn't last throughout the whole fic.**

Now that that's out of the way, if you want some hardcore feels to go along with this fic, check out the playlist: user/ofchaosandlunacy/playlist/13xLiQa0pPV0Zr8NW68j3I

I'll be adding things to it as I keep writing this fic, but that's pretty much the big start of it.

Enjoy!

* * *

Bucky paced around the apartment, gnawing his lips raw as he waited for Steve to get back from his class. Steve was gonna be mad, furious, _absolutely beside himself_ when he broke the news. He deserved that, deserved to feel the wrath of that skinny little thing bearing down on him. It was stupid of him, really, but he'd have gotten picked up sooner than later anyway. Might as well go before they _make_ you go, that's how Bucky justified it.

Steve's key turning in the door was louder than Bucky expected, dragging him out of his spiraling thoughts. Steve looked exhausted when Bucky finally got his eyes on him; his shoulders were slumped like he was hiding from the world, his eyes down on the dingy carpet. Great, and now he had this news to tell him? What a guy he was.

"Hey doll-face," Bucky said, trying to sound chipper and knowing he failed. "Why so glum?"

Steve shrugged off his jacket, hanging it on the peg by the door. "I'm just tired."

"Why don't you come sit down," Bucky said as he did the same himself, attempting to look casual. "I... I gotta talk to you about somethin'."

Steve eyed him suspiciously, flopping down on the couch with a grunt. "Okay?"

"Stevie..."

"What're you gonna tell me, Buck? You only ever call me that if its bad news or you want somethin'," Steve said.

"I do not!"

Steve sniffed, but smiled a little. "Liar, liar."

"Hey, I'm being serious here, okay? This ain't easy," Bucky rubbed the back of his neck with a shaking hand. "Give me a break, alright?"

Steve frowned. "I'm sorry Buck, I was just yankin' your chain," he smiled softly and scooted a little closer. "Tell me what's on your mind."

Bucky stared at Steve for a long time, trying to memorize every angle in his face, every slope of his bones, every little thing about him. How big and innocent his eyes were, how his eyebrows were such a pale blond they only existed if you were up close. The curve of his upper lip, lying flush against the fullness of the bottom one. How Steve never had a hint of scruff on his face, just smooth, pale skin that finally had some color to it.

"Buck?"

"Y-yeah. Sorry. I was just..."

"You were staring at me like you'd never see me again," Steve said, he was joking but the words made Bucky's gut twist. "I can draw you a picture, ya know?"

Bucky laughed a little, a pathetic, breathy sound. "Yeah. That'd be good. I'm gonna need one."

"Why?" Steve asked, frowning again.

"Stevie... I-I'm going to basic soon. I enlisted," Bucky muttered. He tried to hold Steve's eyes but he just couldn't. He wasn't prepared to see what was swimming there. "I had to. The draft is coming and they woulda picked me up anyway... I just...I got ahead of it, is all."

"You're leaving me?" Steve said.

"I don't wanna leave you, Steve!"

"But you enlisted! You went on your own, you could have waited for the draft," Steve pushed up from the couch, moving away from Bucky. "You _chose_ to go! You know I can't– I can't go with you."

Bucky hung his head, shame curled quickly and deep in his guts. Going into the damn army was all Steve wanted because he was some kind of crazy. Bucky wouldn't have a choice come draft time, he'd be yanked out by his feet and thrown into the war whether he liked it or not. Steve would be left behind no matter what; no doctor in their right mind would allow him to enlist, no matter how many times he tried.

"You shouldn't want to go, Steve," Bucky muttered, it felt insubstantial, it wouldn't make Steve feel better, but it was a fact. "I need you to be safe..."

"I need you to not treat me like a kid," Steve snapped. "Dammit Bucky why? Why couldn't you just wait? You had to choose to go? You chose to leave me early."

"I didn't do this to leave you! Don't make it about that," Bucky yelled, then reigned himself in. He couldn't get too loud, not if the neighbors were home. "I'm not doing this to leave you! I'm doing it because it's inevitable, Steve. They're gonna snatch me away from you and I'd rather make the choice myself. I don't want to leave, I really don't, but if I _have_ to, it'll be because I choose it, not because some mooks in uniform come and snatch me out of our bed!"

"Yeah well if they were snatching you out of our bed you wouldn't be going to war, we'd both be going to jail." Steve said.

Bucky put his head in his hands. Steve had a way of making the truth hurt a little more than it already did. "Why do you gotta say it like that?"

Their relationship was as taboo as it came, and they were lucky that not many people looked at them too long. Most people knew that they'd been friends for most of their lives and no one really blinked when they moved in together, friends did that all the time. Split the cost of the rent; make it easy on each other. No, no one suspected much until one of the neighbors asked Steve how he could stand the sounds of his buddy necking with dames through the walls all the time. Steve had turned bright red and muttered about just ignoring it, and then he started moaning into pillows whenever Bucky was inside him, trying to stifle the sounds.

No one had been suspicious until that same neighbor pointed out that they never saw any girls leave the apartment. Bucky was exponentially more suave about dodging the question, pointing out that unless you were watching all the time, you wouldn't even notice if _they_ came and went half the time. The neighbor had been flustered at Bucky's thinly veiled accusation and didn't bring it up again. Bucky and Steve stopped having sex for a long time after that.

"Buck... is that... is that why you're going?" Steve stammered.

"Is what why I'm going?"

"Us? This whole thing? Is that why you enlisted?" Steve asked, his voice wavering.

Bucky's head snapped up, eyes wide with disbelief. "Jesus fucking Christ! Steve, no! What the hell are you thinking?"

"That maybe you got sick of having to hide all the time," Steve murmured, looking down at his feet. "That... that you decided you really did like girls instead..."

"Steven Grant Rogers get your skinny punk ass over here right now." Bucky said.

Steve looked shocked for a moment, but woodenly made his way over to Bucky. He grabbed Steve around the waist and yanked him into his lap, holding him tight.

"Don't you dare ever say anything like that again," Bucky said, scolding but gentle. "I love you more than life itself, do you hear me? Do you really think I'm sick of you? Do you really think there's a broad out there that compares to you?"

"There are plenty of dames out there better than me." Steve grumbled.

Bucky wanted to shake him. He'd never get it through his thick skull how much he loved him. How much he loved everything about him. Every bony little ridge, every soft dip and plane of him, every delicate edge. Steve would never understand it. Bucky could spend a lifetime waxing poetic about how he loved every tiny inch of that boy and Steve would never understand why.

"No one compares to you," Bucky said earnestly, squeezing Steve around the middle. "No one, you got me? I don't want any of those dames. You're it for me, Stevie. That's all."

Bucky nuzzled his face into Steve's skinny chest, pressing gentle kisses against the ridge of his collarbone. Steve squirmed, sighed, and then settled against Bucky's arms, dropping a kiss on the top of his head.

"I'm still mad at you for leaving," he grumped. "But I love you too, jerk."

"I'm sorry Stevie, I'm so sorry I have to leave you," Bucky murmured into his chest, like he was trying to get the words to stick directly into Steve's heart. "Please don't think I love you or want you any less because of this. I will love you for the rest of my life, no matter where I am. Just promise me you'll be here when I get back. Promise me you won't do anything stupid while I'm gone. I'm gonna need you when I get back."

"Yeah, okay. I promise," Steve said thickly, tears gumming up his throat. "I love you, Buck. I love you so much. Nothing's gonna be the same without you."

"I know, doll-face, I know. Let's try and make the best of it before I have to go, huh?"

* * *

The day before Bucky shipped out to basic, he'd managed to convince Steve to come out for drinks with him. A last hurrah before he had to go, a feeble celebration to take their minds off of the impending crush of separation. They'd been by each other's sides for the last decade or more without fail, and this was the first time they'd ever be this far away from each other.

Steve had resisted at first, begging Bucky for a quiet night in, just the two of them and some stories on the radio. He'd wanted Bucky to hold him and just let him cry, because he couldn't stop snotting everywhere for a week. Any time he saw enlistment notices or recruitment tents, it was like the floodgates opened and he was reminded that his best guy was about to be gone. Steve wanted Bucky to make love to him that night, for the last time in God knows how long before he was starved for his sweetheart's touch. Bucky promised he would, that he'd love him until he couldn't breathe (which didn't take much, if you were Steve Rogers), and he'd give him all the air in his chest just to do it all over again. _But just an hour or so, let's just go out for a bit, we both need a drink._ Steve couldn't deny the truth in that.

Steve was tipsy, warm in his nose and cheeks from the glass of good whiskey that Bucky had splurged on for him. Bucky had drunk two himself by the time Steve finished his first. Bucky had just strolled off to the bar, turning on that stupid Bucky charm as he leaned against the oily wooden surface and sweet-talked a couple of deeply discounted drinks for a future soldier and his friend.

It was warm and sweet on Steve's tongue, spicy whiskey that tasted like honey and fizzed like there was soda water in it. It was good, and the bubbles tickled his nose. He felt a little relaxed, and Bucky did too, reclining in his chair and smiling easily at the dames who flirted with him from across the room. He never made to go talk to any of them, but gave them that easy come, easy go smile and turned his attention back to Steve. Red-cheeked and grinning, Bucky was a little drunk.

Bucky tended to get a little grabby when he was tipsy. He scooted his chair just a little closer to Steve's, his eyes sweeping the room and he let his hand fall beneath the table and squeeze the top of Steve's skinny leg gently. Steve nearly jumped out of his skin, swatting at Bucky's wandering hand.

"Will you be careful," he hissed softly, but his eyes shined with the appreciation of the gesture. "Don't go getting us killed before you leave."

Bucky rolled his eyes lazily, propping his chin on the heel of his free hand. "We're fine, stop worryin' so much."

"Don't get too cocky now, soldier." Steve joked.

Bucky grinned, a lecherous little thing that made Steve blush. "Ah c'mon, even I know I gotta wait till we get home for that."

Steve snorted. "You're drunk."

"So are you," Bucky fired back, his mouth quirking up just slightly into that easy, Bucky smile. "Doesn't take much."

Steve opened his mouth to speak, a witty jab on the tip of his tongue when another voice cut across his. Nasal and high-pitched, a New York accent from across the river.

"What does it take to get a pretty fella like you to buy a girl like me a drink, huh?"

She was a pretty enough dame, with curly red hair and brown eyes. She was wildly curvy and shoving her chest in Bucky's direction, which he didn't seem to notice at all. He leaned back in his chair, bringing his hand back up to the tabletop to tap lightly at the stained wood.

"Well, there's two fellas at this table ma'am, you're gonna need to be specific." Bucky said.

"I thought I was," her voice annoyed Steve, grating and loud. "I said the pretty one."

Bucky laughed and looked up at her, smiling that smile that danced between flirting and politely screaming: _get the fuck away from me._ "What's your name, pretty girl?"

"Lisa."

"Lisa, I'm James," Bucky said. "And I appreciate your guts coming up here and asking for a drink, but ya see, I just ain't got the cash left. I mighta splurged a bit for me and my buddy here. It's my last night in town, see."

"Oh? Where ya going?" Lisa asked.

"Basic," Bucky shrugged like it meant nothing. "Off to the army to defend our fine country. So, if you'll excuse us, my friend and I are gonna finish our drinks, and I'm gonna take my tipsy little soldier butt home. 0300 comes around before you know it."

Lisa scoffed, much more resilient than expected. "Why are you gonna spend your last day in town with another fella? Shouldn't you get your hands up one last skirt before you go? Nothing but fellas in the army," Lisa made a disgusted face. "Unless you _like_ that kinda thing."

Bucky could damn near feel Steve's blood pressure skyrocket. He sighed, playing wounded. "Ah sweetheart, come on! Do I look like the type to you?"

Lisa studied Bucky for a moment, her hawkish eyes flitting between him and Steve. She made that same, disgusted face again. "Maybe you are. I've always heard faggots are the ones you least expect. Shame you'd go for boys as it is, but a skinny little shit like that?"

Bucky's smile fell and he leaned forward, his eyes gone hard and dangerous. "That'll do. You trying to get us in trouble over here? You can't go making accusations like that, pretty girl. That's not nice."

"All I'm saying is that you look a little suspicious. Holed up in the corner of a bar, spending your money on a fella like that." Lisa sneered.

Bucky sighed, getting desperate now. He curled a finger in Lisa's direction and she leaned down to him. He pushed up and kissed her, thorough and sloppy. Steve clenched his fists under the table, stupid dame, stupid, stupid girl. Trying to screw everything up for them. When Bucky pulled away, he had red lipstick on his mouth and teeth. He swigged from his honey-whiskey drink and pushed it toward her.

"Here, have mine," Bucky said. "And while you're at it, maybe stop trying to get fellas arrested with your bullshit, huh? Get outta my face."

Lisa gaped at him for a moment before stumbling away from the table, leaving the drink behind. Bucky shrugged and tossed the rest of it back, wiping his mouth with a napkin, watching where she was headed. She blended into a table of other girls dressed similarly to her, but there were three brutish looking guys with them. One was big, bigger than Bucky and Steve put together. The other two were about Bucky's size, and kinda scrappy looking. Bad news.

"You might wanna finish that up," he murmured to Steve. "We should probably go."

Steve nodded silently, and sipped down most of his drink, he couldn't finish the whole thing; he probably wouldn't be able to walk if he did. Bucky wasn't offended, just slowly got up from his seat and nodded his thanks to the bartender who called him over. Hesitantly, Bucky approached and the bartender handed him a bottle of decent whiskey, with a grin and a salute.

"For the soldier," he said in a boisterous voice that made Bucky a little nervous. "You're gonna need that, son. On the house."

Bucky smiled, swallowing thickly. "Thank you. That's very kind of you, sir."

Steve followed Bucky out of the bar, feeling eyes on his back as he went. Once outside, Bucky spat on the ground a few times, swearing under his breath and tugged Steve around the corner. They weaved through the backs of buildings before coming to a stop in the back of an alley. Bucky scanned the area before uncapping the bottle of whiskey and taking a healthy swig. The first one he swished around his mouth and spat out in a big, sloppy puddle at his feet. The second one he swallowed, cringing at the burn.

Steve laughed. "That bad?"

"She tasted like burnt toast and cigarettes," Bucky gagged and spat on the ground again. "Which, for the record, is an awful mix that I never, ever want to taste again. Always brush your teeth, and never, ever smoke."

"I couldn't smoke if I wanted to, pal," Steve chuckled again. "It'd probably kill me."

Bucky frowned, but shrugged as if to agree. "Sorry buddy, I think you're right."

Steve held his hand out for the bottle and took a modest swig. "Is that the first time someone's called you that?"

"What? A faggot," Bucky snorted and rolled his eyes. "I am what I am."

Steve gaped at him. "Buck!"

"It can't hurt you if you own it, Stevie," Bucky said. "I'm a queer and I don't give a stinking shit. I've never had a dame love me the way my boy does, I'm never gonna have it and I don't want it."

Steve looked at him like he'd just fallen from heaven. Those big blue eyes swimming. "You're amazing, you know that, right?"

Bucky smiled, "I've been told a time or two," he glanced around the alley, listening carefully. "It's just us back here. C'mere, I think I'm clean enough now. Kiss me."

Steve did a quick, cursory check of his own before he launched his little body at Bucky. Bucky gathered him in his arms and kissed him hard and deep. Not that gross, sloppy thing he'd given Lisa, but a real kiss. One that explored every whiskey sweet corner of Steve's mouth, tasting the softness inside. Bucky groaned softly when Steve's tongue swept inside his mouth, matching his move for move, a lazy, slow thing.

Steve's hands were bunched in the front of Bucky's shirt, gripping tight like it was the only thing keeping his feet on the ground. Bucky's hands had slipped under Steve shirt in the back, his fingers pressing gently against the ridges of his spine. Steve's back was one of his favorite parts of him, he was so thin that Bucky could see how his spine curved and he loved to trace that beautiful bent line with his fingers, feeling every little bump of vertebrae under his hands.

"Would you look at that, boys? Turns out she wasn't wrong after all," A voice called from behind them. "Those two _were_ a couple of dick sucking fairy boys!"

Bucky's blood froze in his veins as he pulled Steve away. He shoved Steve behind him, blocking him with his body despite how Steve protested.

"Don't be dumb this time," Bucky hissed. "Just be careful!"

The three men from Lisa's table at the bar were fast approaching down the alley toward them, yelling obscene things at them that included more derogatory terms for a gay man than Bucky and Steve together knew existed.

"Listen fellas! There's no need for all this," Bucky called when they got too close for comfort. "We ain't hurtin' anyone, ya hear? We just wanna go home in peace."

"Well see that's were you're wrong," the big one sneered. "That girl you put your dirty faggot mouth on? That was my sister, and I take personal offense to what you did."

Bucky swore under his breath. "Get the hell outta here," he said to Steve. "Don't fight with me, just go. This is gonna get ugly."

"They'll _kill_ you!" Steve hissed.

"Yeah, and whatdaya think they'll do to you? Get out of here!" Bucky said.

A meaty fist landed in Bucky's face before he could mutter another word to Steve. It knocked him for a loop and he staggered sideways, blood exploding from his bottom lip. He spat on the ground, before launching himself at the other guy who was going for Steve. _Distract them make them come for me. Please, please, please don't hurt him_. Bucky was desperate to protect Steve, he'd take every hit if it meant Steve was safe.

"GO ON! GET OUTTA HERE!" Bucky yelled. "RUN YOU PUNK, GO!"

Another fist smashed down into his gut and knocked the wind out of him. Someone else from behind kicked out his knees, and he landed with a grunt only to receive a kick to the chest for his trouble. Bucky was seeing stars but he didn't care, as long as he heard Steve's footsteps running the opposite way. The guys were yelling abuse at him but were far too concerned with beating Bucky to a pulp to follow him.

Something cracked in his midsection when the big guy kicked him in the stomach. Bucky groaned and clutched his gut as another boot struck him in the side of the head. His brain was screaming for him to get up and fight, but the three guys were just too much. He landed maybe two weak punches on one of them, only to be rewarded with a kick to the gut that probably cracked another rib and a stomp on his prone arm. He heard something crack, screamed his throat raw because the pain was blinding. He was bleeding from his head, his nose, and his mouth, his whole body felt hot and sore. Breathing was a challenge but he didn't care. Steve was safe; Steve had listened and not joined the fight. He was safe.

The big guy knelt beside him, grabbing his hair in a thick hand, and wrenching his head back hard. Bucky gasped and that was nearly as painful as the rest of his body. He was swallowing blood and it made his stomach sick, but goddammit Steve was safe, that's all that mattered.

"I hope your boy-fucking life was worth it," the big guy growled in his face. "I oughta kill you for putting your queer mouth on my sister. Or maybe we should go find your skinny little fairy boyfriend and show him a thing or two about being a real man."

Bucky spat blood at his face, seething on the inside. "Leave him the fuck alone!"

The threat was pathetic. He could hardly breathe, let alone speak. The guys just laughed at him, and the big one threw him to the ground and kicked him in his bad left arm.

"You ain't even worth it," the big guy spat on the ground next to Bucky's head. "Don't show your faggot face around here ever again. You do, I'll fucking kill you and your little shit boyfriend."

Bucky was flirting with unconsciousness, his head swimming as he heard their footsteps start to fade away. He was wheezing like Steve did when his asthma acted up, alone, bleeding, and broken in that alley. His left arm was throbbing something fierce, his head pounded, his stomach hurt. He'd be covered in cuts and bruises by the end of the night but goddammit Steve was safe. He'd take any beating, any consequence as long as that beautiful boy stayed safe.

* * *

It had taken Bucky nearly an hour, he supposed, to drag himself to his feet and stagger out of that alley. The few people still out on the streets were staring at him and he knew he must have looked a mess. Bleeding and dirty, hobbling along because he wasn't sure how long he'd be conscious. He jumped every time he heard a noise behind him, ducked into other alleys when he heard voices, terrified that those who'd beat him nearly to death were still close by.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to see Steve, wanted to let him fuss over his cuts and scrapes and clean him up. He wanted to cry and scream and punch things because the goddamn world wasn't fucking fair. Just because the person he loved was a man, they were condemned to a lifetime of disgusted glares and back alley beatings because they dared to love each other. Because they dared to be proud of each other and because they wanted to have a life together. They'd be ripped apart from their foundation just because they were both men, and it made Bucky _furious_.

No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't go home to Steve. He couldn't bring himself to drag his broken body back to their apartment, not with the stares he'd collect, not with the people who hurt him lurking. He couldn't go back to Steve, and the thought of it crushed whatever was left of him inside. He should have just listened, they should have stayed in and been together. Bucky would have left for basic the next day, sure, but at least he could have kissed Steve one last time, he could have seen his smile one last time, could have heard his voice and felt his body next to his one last time.

He'd never see Steve again.

That was enough to shatter him from the inside out.

Bucky staggered toward an empty bus stop, sitting down laboriously on the bench. His ribs were aching fiercely; his arm was a nonstop throb where he was sure it was broken. He cradled the bad arm against his chest, wiping blood from his face and nose with the sleeve of his jacket.

A bus trundled up a few minutes later, its doors hissing open. The driver looked down at Bucky, bloody and bruised.

"You alright, son?"

Bucky shook his head. "Need to get out."

The driver was quiet for a moment, considering the battered boy on the bench. "Get in. Come on, now, don't dally."

Bucky got to his feet heavily, wincing with every step as he boarded the bus. It was empty and dim and Bucky fell into the nearest seat.

"I don't have much money," Bucky said, his voice rattling in his injured lungs.

"I didn't say anything about money," the driver said as he reached up and flicked off a light. Out of service. Bucky nearly wept with gratitude. "Where to, young man?"

"Anywhere. Don't care. Just not here." Bucky choked out.

"You oughta get yourself to a hospital. Ya don't look good," the driver said as the bus rumbled down the street. "What happened to you?"

"Will you kick me out if I tell the truth?" Bucky slurred.

"Doesn't seem fair to do that," the driver glanced back at Bucky in the mirror. "What's your story?"

"Got beat up by three lunkheads," Bucky murmured, licking his cracked, bleeding lips. "Had to defend my boy. He's sick, small y'see. They woulda killed him. I'd die for him a hundred times, s'long as he's safe."

The bus driver chuckled. "You a queer, son?"

Bucky flinched. "Yeah. You gonna turn me in?"

"I don't think so. Doesn't seem right. You're already down far enough," the driver said. "I personally don't see the big hoopla about it. I don't remember reading any rules that said you had to love a gal just because you were born with a pecker."

Bucky did cry then, fat ugly tears leaked out his eyes, burning the cuts on his cheeks where he'd been kicked. He shuddered and wheezed because crying so hard made his bad ribs feel like they were breaking all over again. He wrapped his good arm around himself, like he was trying desperately to hold everything inside but the dam was breaking and he was falling apart, swept away by the heavy wash of emotion.

The driver just sat quietly, maneuvering them out of Brooklyn while Bucky fell to pieces in his seat.

"What's your name?" The driver asked.

Bucky had to wait until his sobs slowed to manageable hiccups before he could answer. "James Barnes, sir."

No one was allowed to call him Bucky anymore. No one but Steve.

The driver laughed. "Good manners and all. Well James, I've got a place I can take you. Lay low until all this blows over and you can go back home if you want."

"Can't go back," Bucky said. "They'll find me... find him... I can't..."

"Alright, alright. Whatever you need," the driver said. "You just sit tight. We'll make it by morning."


	2. Chapter 2

A sweet old woman had taken care of the cuts on his face, seen to it that he drank some water and ate a little something. She wrapped his gut in some tight bandages that made it even harder to breathe but she'd said that it would help his bad ribs. She wrapped some weird goopy mess around his arm that turned hard and solid after a while and made him a makeshift sling out of some torn sheets and old pantyhose.

Bucky was out of it for the whole thing, just muttering yes ma'am, no ma'am, thank you ma'am, when he thought it was appropriate. He cried, cried like he hadn't done since he was a child. Cried because everything hurt, cried because he already missed Steve, cried because he never got to say goodbye.

"You're gonna be alright," the kindly old woman said. "Don't you worry dear."

Bucky couldn't agree with her, but just nodded his woozy head and said: "Yes ma'am."

"What's your name honey? John didn't mention it when he brought you down." She asked.

"James, ma'am." He said automatically.

"You can call me Martha," she smiled at him and brushed his hair away from his forehead like his ma did when he was sick. He started crying all over again. "Oh you poor sweet thing. Who did this to you, James?"

"Buncha jerks," Bucky wheezed. "Were gonna hurt my friend...I couldn't let them."

 _Your boyfriend, idiot, don't forget him so quickly._

"My... my boyfriend." He amended through tears, inhaling hurt, but he tried to suck them up.

"Oh honey I'm not gonna throw you out on the streets for that," Martha said, patting his good arm. "You've been through enough. There's a spare room down the hall, why don't you go get some rest, huh?"

Bucky nodded weakly. "Thank you... thank you so much," he coughed, wincing. "I can't stay here long. The army... they'll come looking for me. I was supposed to enlist, leave in the morning..."

"James stop. Does anyone know you're here?" Martha asked.

"No ma'am," _Not a soul, not even the love of my life_. "No one knows."

"Then you stop that worryin', you hear me. They wouldn't take you with the state you're in anyway," Martha said. "You go rest your bones, young man. You're gonna be okay."

Bucky wanted to hug her, she reminded him of his nana, sweet and motherly. But instead of touch her, he just eased off the toilet seat he sat on and thanked her over and over until she swatted at him to get on. He lumbered down the hall to the spare room; it was small but nice with a little twin bed and a table with a lamp on it. There were some books on top of the table and a little window covered with lacy white curtains.

Bucky eased down onto the bed, blowing out a breath that might have been relief if he didn't hurt so badly. He laid down, staring up at the ceiling and wondered if maybe he'd die in his sleep.

That'd be better than being alive and without Steve.

* * *

There was a little girl hovering dangerously close to his face when he woke up. He almost shouted but it hurt too badly. The girl grinned at him when she saw his eyes open and scooted out of the room.

"Nana Martha! He's up, he's up!" She squealed.

Bucky's head hurt, it was pounding in a way that made him dizzy when he tried to sit up. His ribs were aching something fierce and it was hard to breathe. The little girl came skipping back in, and she was a cute little thing that reminded him of his baby sister. All bright blue eyes and curly dark brown hair with a dimple in her right cheek, just like Becca. That brought a whole new ache to his chest.

"Hi!" She said. "I'm Annabelle!"

"Hi," Bucky croaked. "I-I'm James."

Annabelle giggled. "You've been asleep for five whole days James!"

"Annabelle Marie if you don't leave that boy alone," Martha scolded as she entered the room. She spun the girl around by her shoulders and pushed her out. "Go on, now. Go play."

Bucky tried to smile but his mouth felt crooked. "Not bothering me. I've got sisters."

Martha smiled at him and came close to put her hand on his forehead to check his temperature. "I know honey but she's a handful I promise. You're warm, you feel okay?"

"I feel like shit." Bucky said automatically, and then cringed. "Sorry, ma'am."

Martha just laughed. "You're a grown man, James. You can swear if you want. Just not in front of the little one. Which reminds me, I meant to ask. How old are you?"

"Turned 25 in March, ma'am," Bucky said.

"No wonder you were going to the army," Martha said. "Strapping young guy like you."

Bucky hung his head, it hurt to talk, but he needed to say the words. "I'm a liar. I shouldn't be going anyway. They don't take fellas like me."

"How long are you gonna beat yourself up about that? Doesn't the world do that enough for you," Martha said. "I could give a hoot who you're in love with. It's none of my business anyway, I don't care where you poke your pecker as long as you're a good man."

Bucky laughed a little but it dissolved into hard, painful coughs. Why couldn't everyone be like Martha and John? Why did people have to look at him like he had some kind of disease, just because he loved a boy?

"Have I really been asleep for five days?" Bucky asked.

"Oh yes. I got scared for a while there, thought you were going on me," Martha said. "But you kept on breathing so I knew you were alright. Kept asking for someone named Steve in your sleep. That your boy?"

Bucky nodded, fresh tears welling up in his eyes. "Yeah. I miss him. I miss him so bad."

"I bet he misses you too," Martha said. "Leaving without a word and all the way you did. You oughta write to him. Let him know you're alive and alright if you ain't planning on going back. You owe him that, James."

"Yes ma'am." He said.

"Do you keep religion, James?" Martha asked.

"No ma'am, not anymore," Bucky said. "Raised Catholic... I just don't believe anymore."

Martha gave him a sympathetic smile. "I understand. We're headed off to church though. I'll get you some paper. Are you right handed?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Alright then. You come on out to the dining room. There's some food in the kitchen for you, I bet you're starving," Martha said. "I'll set you up with some paper so you can get started. You gonna be okay for a couple hours?"

"Yes ma'am."

He heard Martha sigh, and then she leaned in and kissed him on his overheated forehead. "You poor baby. They really messed you up."

Bucky just nodded and slowly eased to his feet. He followed Martha out of the room and down the hallway into the main part of the house. It was a nice place, not dinky like the apartment he grew up in. It was spacious and clean and felt homey. Martha led him to the dining room and pulled out a chair for him. He thanked her, his eyes trained down at the table. She brought him a few sheets of plain paper and a pencil and a plate with eggs and sausage on it. Annabelle tottered into the room, carefully carrying a big cup of water and sat it down next to his good arm.

"We'll just be down the road. Please help yourself to anything you need," Martha said.

"Thank you." Bucky murmured.

Martha squeezed his shoulder gently and Annabelle kissed him on the elbow of his good arm before they headed out. Bucky ate slowly, staring at the blank paper in front of him. What could he even say to Steve that would make up for what happened? He'd already been gone for five days without a word and Steve was probably worrying sick. A letter wouldn't get to him for another few days... but at least he'd know he was alive and still loved him, no matter how far apart they were.

It was harder to write than he expected with just one arm, the hardened makeshift cast on his left arm couldn't move very well and it was starting to smell a little funny. It itched something furious, too. His fingers were numb most of the time and he wasn't sure that was a good sign, but he'd left Martha check it out when they returned.

He had to set the plate from his breakfast on top of the paper so it wouldn't slide around as he scribbled down all the words that stuck in his head he needed Steve to know. He'd filled up nearly two pieces of paper by the time he was done and both of them were dotted wet with tears because he'd started crying again. Bucky didn't think he'd ever be the same again, and maybe it was better if he couldn't see Steve. At least that way Steve would remember the right Bucky, the good one who laughed all the time and kissed him even when he was sick. Not this one, not this sad, broken shell that could hardly stand to look at anyone lest he see the rage and disgust in their faces that he'd seen on those guys who'd beat him down in that alley. Even if they didn't know anything about him, Bucky felt like _everyone_ knew. Like he had 'punch the queer' written on his forehead, inviting anyone who hated the way he lived to insert themselves into his life.

Carefully, Bucky folded the papers in half and got up from his chair. He balanced the plate on his fake cast as he wandered to find the kitchen. Placing his plate and cup in the sink, Bucky shuffled back to his room and laid down, curling on his right side, the letter to Steve clutched on his hand. He laid there and shook and cried, miserable until he fell asleep again.

* * *

Bucky screamed when he woke this time, swiping his good arm at the empty air. They were all bearing down on him, menacing and spitting, yelling awful things at him. He was hot and sweating and he could hardly breathe but he had to get them away, away from him, away from Steve.

"James! James wake up!"

His gasp turned into that nasty, hacking cough again and he felt like he might be sick. Martha was sitting in a chair beside his bed, wiping a wet cloth over his forehead.

"You're alright honey, you're fine. I'm right here."

Bucky panted, curling his good arm around his stomach. It hurt so bad he could hardly see.

"Where am I?" Bucky slurred.

"Strictly speaking, you're in New Jersey, dear," Martha said. "Did you have a bad dream?"

Bucky nodded, and then frantically looked around him. "My letter! Where–"

"It's right here. You had it in your hand while you were sleeping but you've been sweating that fever out," Martha said. "I put it on be table for you. Don't worry, I didn't read it. We're gonna have to take thing off your arm. Something ain't right about it."

Bucky nodded. "It smells."

Martha held out a hand for him. "Come on into the bathroom, we'll check it out."

Bucky pressed his good hand into Martha's, careful not to put too much weight on it, but she was stronger than he expected. She helped haul him out of bed and walked him to the bathroom. He sat on the toilet seat as she bustled around and gather a big bucket and the basin from his room. She filled the basin with hot water and placed the bucket on Bucky's lap.

"Hold that with your good arm, alright," she said, fitting the bucket just so under his casted arm. "This is gonna be a little warm."

Bucky nodded as Martha poured the hot water over the makeshift plaster. She had to do it a few times before it started to soften and melt away and she could pick it off with her fingers. There'd been a particularly nasty cut on Bucky's left forearm and even though it was thoroughly cleaned, it hadn't taken well to being under the plaster.

"A-are you a doctor, miss Martha?" Bucky asked cautiously.

Martha smiled (because that was the first time he hadn't called her ma'am), and dumped the last of the plaster into the bucket. "No child, but I've dressed and plastered a thousand wounds worse than this. I was a nurse at the hospital down the way for twenty years. It just seems your skin didn't like that plaster. You having any problems with it?"

"Fingers are a little numb, the cast itched a lot." Bucky said.

Martha hummed and emptied the smelly plaster into a bag and stuck the bucket under his arm again. "Does it still hurt?"

Bucky nodded. "Some."

Martha got some more warm water and some strong smelling soap and cleaned Bucky's arm with it. It stung where it washed over the cuts, particularly the one that wasn't healing well. She washed it thoroughly, treating his skin gently as she did. She slathered some thick, potent cream over the cut and bandaged it, then wrapped his whole forearm in some tight, clean bandages to keep him from moving it too much.

"Let's try that," Martha said. "We'll clean it every day and see how it does. That's a broken arm there, James so don't go trying to do too much with it. Keep the sling on, I don't want you to aggravate it or else we're gonna have to take you to the hospital and let 'em plaster you proper."

"Yes ma'am," Bucky said. "I'd really like to not go to the hospital."

"We'll keep an eye on it. Seems like you got some infection in that arm," Martha frowned. "I think I've got some medicine for that around here somewhere."

"Thank you, ma'am," Bucky said dutifully. "Can... can I ask you a favor? You've already done so much for me..."

"You ask for anything you like, James." Martha said firmly.

He swallowed, nodding feebly. "That letter... will you mail it for me? I... I really need Stevie to know I'm okay."

Martha smiled at him, a soft, loving thing. "Of course I will. I'll have John take it right away."

Bucky's eyes welled up again as Martha helped him into his makeshift sling. "Thank you... thank you so much."

"You never need to thank me, sweetheart. I just wanna see you get better." Martha said.


	3. Chapter 3

Steve had scarcely wanted to leave the apartment since Bucky had been gone. He'd holed himself up in their bedroom, just waiting for him to come back that night. No matter how fast he ran, his lungs wouldn't let him make it too far and he'd heard Bucky's awful, awful screams from the end of the road.

They'd killed him, they must have. He was dead and Steve hadn't lifted a finger to help.

Guilt ate at him every single day.

The army had come to his parent's house looking for him when he didn't report to basic the next day. His mother had come to the apartment, sobbing and asking Steve where Bucky had got off too. Steve had to tell her, had to wheeze his way through the story of what happened. She just cried harder and grabbed Steve in her arms, squeezing him tight against her. She'd _apologized_ to him, said she was sorry that people were so awful and she knew how much they loved each other. She'd been scared for them, knew how people treated boys like them, she wasn't mad at him for what had happened to Bucky. No, not at Steve, at the punks who'd assaulted her son.

Steve felt guiltier for that.

Nearly two weeks after Bucky disappeared, a letter dropped into the mail slot at the front door of their apartment. The writing on the front of the envelope was neat as a pin and there was no return address on it. Confused, Steve dropped onto the couch and tore the envelope open. There were two wrinkly pieces of paper inside and he nearly stopped breathing when he saw the writing on it. _Bucky's handwriting_.

 _Stevie,_

 _I know you're worried about me... I'm worried about me too; I'm worried about you. I miss you so much. I'm alive, I promise you that. They couldn't kill me, not really, but I'm pretty torn up. I gotta tell you what happened._

 _I thought I was done for in that alley that day. I thought I'd never get up and I'd just die there and someone would find me and they'd have to tell my family that they found me in a dirty alley, all busted up. They broke my arm, some of my ribs, bruised me up real bad. But I didn't die, I got up and I left. I'm sorry. I couldn't bring myself to come back, not for what they said they'd do to you if they saw me again. Not for knowing they're still around and you were in danger. I'm a danger to you. I guess we were dangerous together, but I never cared, I still don't. I just miss you._

 _This nice bus driver picked me up, took me out of New York. His wife says I'm in Jersey. Who woulda thought? Jersey of all places. But they're good to me, taking care of me._

 _I can't come home, Stevie. You know I can't. Word gets around too fast and everyone'll know about the queer who nearly got killed in the alley. Everyone'll know it was me. Those guys are talkers, I'd bet my good arm on it, bragging about how they almost got rid of one. But as long as they forget about you, it's ok. As long as you're alive and not beat up, it's ok. I'll miss you forever, and I'll hate not being with you. I hope you can forgive me; I just don't want to put you in danger any more._

 _The army probably came and hopefully they'll think I'm dead and won't keep looking. I know ma has to be upset. Tell her I'm sorry. Tell her and the girls I love them. Please hug my ma for me, I'm gonna miss her so much._

 _I just want you to know, Stevie, that I'd do it all over again to keep you safe. I'd give anything to make sure no one ever hurts you. You're too good for all that you deserve more. I wish I could be there with you and I'm sorry I'm not. I'm so so sorry. Part of me feels like I failed you, doll-face. I'm sorry. I never meant to do that. Please forgive me._

 _I love you Steve Rogers. I love you. I love you. I love you. I'll love you until I can't breathe anymore, I'll love you until I'm dead. Even after that, I'll still love you. I'm sorry I had to go; I wish it was a different world. I woulda married you if we could have, kept you forever._

 _Please take care of yourself. Don't do anything dumb, alright? Please, for me. Keep yourself safe. I love you, doll-face. Forever._

 _-Bucky_

Steve had hardly made it through the first two lines before he was crying. He read the letter over and over, his heart aching. Bucky was alive, he was okay. A little hurt and real sad, but he was okay. The only thing that hurt more was that he wasn't coming back. He couldn't come back, Steve knew it, but he didn't like it. People had been talking the day after it happened, about some boy who'd gotten beat up. People had seen Bucky staggering out of the alley, dirty and bloody. Nobody knew where he went, but one minute, he'd been there and the next he just disappeared.

Steve had listened to every voice he heard as he tried to carry on after the incident. Listened for anyone who might have known what happened to his Bucky. He was on the same bus once as Lisa, sitting a few seats behind her, stuffed down in his jacket so she wouldn't recognize him. She'd heard her laughing with her friends about the fairy her brother probably killed. Laughing like it was a big joke, like Bucky was just a bug that needed to be squished. She'd said that it was a shame, because he had a nice mouth and it should have gone to better use than on some fella's dick. Steve was boiling in his skin, angry and hurt while the girls laughed. They'd got off the bus before him and he was glad, because he probably would have screamed at them if he'd had to walk by. Screamed that the 'fairy' was so much more than that, that his name was Bucky and he was a good man. He was a better man than her shithead brother who tried to kill him.

Bucky was alive and that was the most comfort Steve had received. Maybe, just maybe he could start moving on.

* * *

As much as he wanted to avoid the hospital, it turned out he couldn't. The wound on his arm just wouldn't heal no matter how much Martha treated it. It just seemed to keep festering, getting bigger and more infected. Bucky couldn't keep out of a fever, and nothing they did seemed to get him better.

John took him to the hospital one afternoon when he was damn near delirious with fever, sweating and shivering and vomiting. He was pale and weak and John nearly had to carry him to his bus to get him down the road. When they arrived, John had told them that Bucky's name was James Moore and that he was his nephew visiting from out of town. Bucky was vaguely aware of the lie and how grateful he was for it.

The doctors fussed over him for what felt like hours, trying to sort out why his arm wouldn't heal properly. He swore he heard one of the doctors say something about taking it off below the elbow if the infection wasn't responding. He wouldn't have part of his arm, but the infection wouldn't spread to any other part of his body. He weakly tried to protest but the fever was making him crazy, he was out cold before he heard what decision had been made.

The next thing he knew he was coming out of a woozy sleep, his arm hurt worse than it did when it'd been broken. He tried to wiggle the fingers of his left hand but he couldn't feel them. Bucky let his head fall to his left side, prying his heavy eyes apart. John was sitting on a chair beside the hospital bed, reading the newspaper and Bucky gasped when he finally looked down at his arm.

"M-my arm! What happened?" He croaked.

"James," John dropped the newspaper and frowned at him. "They had to, son. It was getting worse. They think you had some allergy to the plaster Martha tried to fix you up with. Got up under your skin and just kept festering. Woulda killed you if you let it go too long."

Tears leaked out of Bucky's eyes. Not only was he away from everyone he knew, beaten down just for who he was, but now he only had one good arm.

"I'm cursed," Bucky muttered. "Just goddamn cursed."

"Hush now," John said. "You didn't do nothing wrong."

Bucky lifted his left arm, glancing over it. Gone from the elbow down, he'd have a goddamn stump for an arm for the rest of his life and he hadn't even done anything.

"How long am I stuck here?" Bucky asked.

"A day or two at least," John said. "They wanna make sure you're gonna start healing right."

Bucky nodded, miserable inside. "Okay."

"How're those ribs doing?" John asked.

"Fine, compared to my arm," Bucky said. "This is really the pits."

"I'm sorry about your arm James," John said. "But you're gonna live, and that's what's important, right?"

Bucky shrugged. "I guess."

John leaned in closer. "Lemme ask you something. Do you wanna see that boy again?"

"It's all I want," Bucky murmured. "But I can't."

"Why not?"

"It's too dangerous." Bucky said.

"It's not gonna be like that forever," John said. "At least if you're alive you got the chance to see him again. You'll see him again, James. I know you will."

Bucky wanted to believe him. Deep down, he just couldn't.

* * *

It was four days before they released Bucky from the hospital. His arm was healing nicely now that the infected part was gone and he finally didn't have a fever anymore. He felt incomplete, as anyone who'd lost part of their body surely would, but no one made him feel like he was really disabled for it. He still had most of his left arm and that was enough for him to balance things with and he could carry things that weren't fragile between his upper arm and his chest.

He wanted to write to Steve again. To tell him about his arm and ask if he'd still love him this way. He missed Steve something fierce, missed his big blue eyes and that silly hair that no matter how much he combed it, was always a mess. He missed how his bones felt next to him in bed, how Steve cuddled up close because he was always cold. How he would always nuzzle his face into Bucky's chest and tie his fingers up in his undershirt when they slept. He missed Steve's love, his fiery, unconditional love. He missed that spunky little punk, and his weird breathing and how he always made sure Bucky ate breakfast before work, how he cared about him deeper than anyone ever did (except his ma of course).

Annabelle would come bouncing into his room at least once a day, with a book clutched in her little hands and ask him to read to her. The first few days he'd been too sick and woozy from the medicine and the surgery and Martha had shooed her away. After the third or fourth day, Bucky felt better, allowed her to scoot up in the bed next to him and read to her for nearly an hour until she knocked out, coiled up in his lap. It was a neat little routine he had; breakfast in the morning with John and Martha and sometimes Annabelle if she wasn't being a sleepyhead. Then he'd help Martha out around the house, doing what he could with his good arm and what was left of his other one. Some days he sat at the dinner table and stared at the blank paper in front of him, agonizing over whether to write Steve again or not. Most days he decided not to. The day would go on and he'd help Annabelle with her schoolwork and have lunch and dinner and go to bed early. Not that he ever slept well, he had nightmares about that day, nightmares about what might or might not be happening to Steve. Nightmares about the army finding him and laughing at his crippled arm.

"James! Will you come draw with me?" Annabelle asked one day, dancing on her toes and clutching several pieces of paper in her hands.

Bucky had just woken up from a nap he hadn't meant to take. He'd been exhausted because he hadn't really slept in two days. He'd gotten the bandages taken off his arm the day before and couldn't stop staring at that sad, ugly stump that was his left arm. He was a little disoriented, still trying to shake sleep off his head when Annabelle came in, her big eyes hopeful and that infectious smile on her face.

"I'm not much of an artist Anna-banana," he said and she giggled at him. She loved that nickname. "But I'll come sit with you."

"Okay, okay! Come on! Nana made muffins and said we could have _one_ before lunch!" Annabelle said.

Bucky laughed, pulling himself out of bed. He followed Annabelle down the hall into the dining room. He could smell the sweetness wafting from the kitchen and it made his stomach growl. There were two muffins sitting on plates on the table. One big one and a little one and Annabelle pushed the big one at him as she sat down.

"You can have that one since you're big." She said.

"Aren't you the sweetest," Bucky smiled.

They sat in silence for a little while, munching away while Annabelle scratched some drawings onto her paper with a dull pencil. It reminded him of Steve, he always had liked to draw. He kept sketchbooks all over the apartment, full of stuff he liked and Bucky's face (usually when he was sleeping) and views from their third story window. His chest ached a little and he had to look away.

"James? Where are you from?" Annabelle asked.

"Huh? Oh, well, I'm from New York." He said.

Annabelle looked up at him with those big, sparkling eyes, grinning as Martha shuffled quietly into the room and sat at the empty chair at the other side of the table.

"Is it nice there?"

"Sure, it's not so bad," Bucky shrugged. "Coney Island is close by, and that's a lot of fun."

"What's that?" Annabelle asked.

"You ever been to a fair," Bucky asked and Annabelle nodded. "It's like that, but all the time. There's rides and food all over the place. It's fun."

Annabelle gasped. "That sounds great! My ma used to tell me that boys take pretty girls on _dates_ to the fair! Did you take pretty girls on dates to Coney Island?"

Bucky swallowed, his throat feeling gummed up. "I... no, I didn't. I never really had a gal like that to take."

Annabelle frowned. "That's sad. You're a nice boy, James. You shoulda had a nice girl."

Bucky looked above her head, catching Martha's stare. She just nodded at him, mouthing _you can tell her_ and looking sympathetic and he knew he was close to crying again. It felt like that was all he ever did now.

"Anna-banana," Bucky paused, trying to choose the right words for her. She was hardly eight-years-old after all. "I never had a gal... because I had a boy."

She gasped again, dropping her pencil. "You did! But that's not allowed, my ma used to say so."

"Your ma wasn't right about everything, Annabelle," Martha said. "People may say it's not right but there's nothing wrong with it. They ain't hurting anybody just because they're both boys. You can love anybody so long as you treat them right."

Annabelle stared at her grandmother with wonder in her eyes and a big, big grin on her face. "Well okay! That's good," she looked over at Bucky. "Is your boy nice? He must be, because you're real nice and nice people should be together."

His heart felt fit to fly out of his chest. "He's the nicest. Got the best smile in the world..." Annabelle coughed, making a playful face at him. "Except yours of course."

She giggled. "What's his name?"

"Steve."

"Steve," Annabelle said, drawing out the first 'e' with a big smile. "Well I bet Steve is real good."

Bucky smiled brokenly. "Yeah... he really is."

"How come he's not with you?" Annabelle asked.

"Cos... not everyone is understanding like your nana and papa. Not everyone likes it when two boys love each other." Bucky said.

Annabelle frowned. "That's dumb. I don't like that. What's Steve like?"

"He's the best," Bucky murmured. "Got these big blue eyes, blond hair, he's so sweet. He liked to draw, like you."

"I wanna meet Steve," Annabelle said. "He sounds so good!"

"He'd like you," Bucky said, swallowing thickly. "I bet he really would."

"James... how come you were hurt when papa brought you here?" Annabelle asked.

"Annabelle, that's enough questions honey," Martha said. "You sit here and draw, okay? James, will you come to the kitchen with me? I could use your height for a minute."

"Yes ma'am."

Bucky ruffled Annabelle's hair as he got up and followed Martha to the kitchen. There were still muffins in the pan and another batch cooling by the window.

"Reach up on that cabinet and get me that basket, will you please?" Martha asked.

Nodding, Bucky pushed up on his toes just a bit to reach up and pull down the wide basket from up high. Martha took it from him and laid a clean towel inside and filled it up with the muffins from the pans.

"Thought you could use a break. Annabelle can talk your ear off and you looked like you'd had enough." Martha said.

"She doesn't bother me, really," Bucky said. "She reminds me of my baby sister. Just curious and wants to know stuff. I don't mind."

"But you don't like talking about Steve," Martha said, eyeing him. "It makes you uncomfortable. I can tell. You don't have to humor her all the time, James."

"I know," Bucky shrugged, sighing lightly. "But... she wasn't asking anything bad. Just the stuff I wanna remember about him anyway. It helps to say it out loud sometimes, keeps the pictures in my head clear."

"Well just know if you're ever uncomfortable, just talk about something else. She won't mind and neither will we." Martha said.

Bucky nodded, biting the corner of his bottom lip. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"How come you wanted me to tell her about Steve? About him and me?" Bucky asked.

"Because I don't want her growing up thinking that type of nonsense," Martha said. "I want her to be smart and good to everyone she meets. Her father was a man like that, thought queer boys and girls were a disease. He used to tell her when she was just a tiny thing that she'd go to hell if she didn't marry a boy and have all these babies. Her mother agreed because she was too scared not to. It's that type of stupid that makes things like this happen," she gestured to Bucky's ruined left arm. "It's senseless. I won't have her growing up thinking one type of person is wrong just for who they love."

"What happened to her parents?" Bucky asked cautiously.

"Dead. Her father killed her mother, my daughter. Caught her out at some dance, kissing on a school teacher's daughter," Martha said softly. "Stabbed her in her bed, right next door to Annabelle. Her father got ran down in some accident a few weeks later. Can't say he didn't deserve it."

Bucky had to fight his to keep his jaw from hanging. "I-I'm so sorry..."

"Now do you see why we're so pressed to help you," Martha asked, a little choked up. "We couldn't stop what happened to our girl, we couldn't help her before it was too late. But you? You're here and you survived and we'll do whatever we can for you, James."

Bucky wiped a tear away that slid down his cheek. "Thank you. I'll never be able to repay the kindness you've shown me."

"You don't need to repay a thing. Just promise me one thing." Martha said, staring at him imploringly.

"Yes ma'am, anything." Bucky said.

"You go and you find your Steve one day," Martha said. "It ain't gotta be tomorrow or the next day, but you find him one day and you hold him and don't let go. You tell him you love him and you stay by his side. Promise me, James."

"I promise," Bucky said, choking around tears. "I promise."


	4. Chapter 4

He should have known. He should have just goddamn known. Nothing good in his life ever really lasted, but he didn't expect this part of it to end this way.

It'd been nearly a year since John and Martha took him in, gave him a home and the love and support he'd missed from back in New York. They'd helped him through all the heartache of being without Steve, losing half his left arm, and the nights when he couldn't help the screaming from the nightmares. They'd been there for it all. They'd been there when he read the paper about Steve and that crazy experiment that made him big and healthy, and Martha had hugged him like a mother would and let him cry himself dry about it. Had Steve forgotten him? Had he given up and this was his sacrifice? Giving his body up to science and chance and _what if it stopped working_? Would Steve die? Would Bucky truly lose him forever? The war was going on heavy overseas now and is that where they were sending Steve? Jesus he'd always wanted to enlist, but like this? Why?

And then, one day, everything went completely to shit.

Bucky had been sleeping, taking a much needed nap because he'd been up for three days straight and was starting to lose his mind from lack of sleep. Martha had given him some kind of tea to help him relax and he was out like a light when his head hit the pillow. A noise like an explosion jarred him out of sleep, so loud that it shook the whole house. He heard the loud _pop, pop, pop_ sounds of what had to be guns and was on his feet in an instant, clumsily jamming his shoes on and running for the hallway.

There were men in the house, all wearing black uniforms and masks over their faces. Not burglars, no, they were worse than that. There was some weird patch on their shoulders that looked like a skull and some snakes for arms. Bucky froze, his left arm behind his back, the right one raised defensively. His eyes wide and wet as he took in the sight in front of him.

John. Martha. Annabelle. Dead. Shot right through the head.

His stomach turned, he felt like he might be sick. Anger overtook him and he had to stop himself from lunging at the soldier closest to him and ripping his throat out with his bare hand. These were innocent people, dead for no reason.

"What's behind your back? Get your hands up!" One yelled at him.

Bucky stood still, tears on his face but defiant. "Fuck you!"

Three guns were set on him. "Do it now!"

Why hadn't they just shot him yet? What were they waiting for? Bucky glanced around, masked soldiers surrounded him; there was no good way out of this. He sighed, defeated, and moved his left arm from behind his back, exposing the half of it that was left. A few of the soldiers laughed.

"Just shoot him. He's no good to us with one arm." One said.

"We don't shoot," one with a heavy German accent said. "Orders were to take all able bodied. The rest of him works fine."

Bucky wanted to protest, wanted to beg them just to shoot him. He had nothing left anyway; just get it over with already. He wanted to speak up, but before he could open his mouth, something struck him on the back of the head. The world was dark before he even hit the ground.

* * *

It was dingy wherever it was when he woke up. Someone was speaking to him but his head felt like someone had taken everything out and filled it up with cotton. He couldn't hear over the ringing in his ears. Someone slapped him across the face and it... it didn't hurt? Why didn't it hurt? That usually hurts, right?

Another slap. No pain.  
Another slap. No pain.  
Another slap. No pain.

The ringing in his ears stopped, though. Everything started to sharpen to almost painful levels. Lights were brighter than he remembered, sounds were louder, smells–antiseptic and blood–were more potent. What the hell was happening to him?

"I will ask you one more time. What is your name?" The voice said, heavy with accent.

"James." He rasped, his voice thick and dead from disuse.

"Well done James," said the voice. "You are the only one who has responded to the treatment. Without succumbing to the... effects. You are chosen."

"Chosen for what?" Bucky asked.

"For greatness, James. For absolute greatness. We have given you a gift. A chance to help shape the world. But you couldn't do that with only one arm. Your left side was admittedly, a disappointment, but I think you'll find the improvements worth the sacrifice."

Bucky's head lolled weakly to his left side. _What the hell is that_? Where the hell did that silver monstrosity come from? Attached to his left shoulder was a gleaming metal arm. His shoulder was a ruin of puckered, scarred skin and he could feel minor sensations in the remaining nerves of his left arm where they'd attached the monster into what was left of his arm.

"What the fuck is this?"

Bucky lifted his arm it was heavy and awkward. Metal plates shifted and whirred as he turned and moved it, clenching his fist. Vaguely, he heard the accented voice say something about a fist and a hydra before the world went dark again.

* * *

Training was harder than he expected but he learned quickly not to complain. Complaining got you whipped, complaining got you hosed with the heavy spray, complaining got you starved for a week. He learned quickly to force his body to adapt to the grueling training, not that he really needed to force it much. He felt stronger, faster, and more agile than ever. He didn't know his body could move the way it did, but he pushed himself to his absolute limits every day and still could keep going.

The trained him in stealth, marksmanship, and hand-to-hand combat. They gave him knives and handguns and made him kill innocent sparring partners just to prove he could do it.

If he refused, he starved.  
If he refused, he was beaten.  
He stopped refusing.

Then they showed him the chair. He'd tried to fight his way out, using the metal arm to punch through soldiers until they subdued him. The shoved him in the chair and the same doctor he'd heard when he woke with the metal arm was smiling at him–Zola he'd heard his name was–and it was a sick sort of joy.

"Say goodbye to your old life, James. HYDRA is your new home."

They put a bite block in his mouth and heavy restraints around his arms. The pain was agonizing, electric shocks straight to the brain, searing away everything he knew. His life, his home, _Steve_. He screamed around the block, for the pain, for the anger, and because for the first time in his life, Steve's smile was fading away from the memories in his head. He screamed because that was the most sacred thing he had and they were stealing it from him.

He was always weak after the chair, sweating and panting. It was always after the chair that they taught him new things. Painting his fresh brain with the colors they wanted him to see. They taught him Russian and German, to speak and understand the languages. They taught him how best to use his arm, they taught him how long he could last without food.

Then they gave him the words.

страстное желание (Longing)

ржаветь (Rusted)

Семнадцать (Seventeen)

рассвет (Daybreak)

печь (Furnace)

девять (Nine)

доброкачественный (Benign)

Возвращение домой (Homecoming)

Один (One)

Грузовой автомобиль (Freight Car)

The words that made him the soldier.  
The words that made him the monster.

He wasn't James Barnes anymore. He wasn't Bucky anymore. He was simply a soldier. He was as deadly as he was obedient. As cold as he was fast. As terrifying a thing as anyone had ever seen. Death cloaked in metal and Kevlar.

He had no thoughts, no feelings, and no memories. He was no longer a man, but a tool. An asset to be used.

Soldier. Ready to comply.

Once they thought he was fully ready, they put him on ice. Preserved what they'd taught him, waited for the right moment to unleash that beast.

* * *

Over the last seventy years, he'd done a lot of things. A lot of missions, a lot of killing. This one though, this one had him stumped. This one had been long and arduous. Plans kept changing, things kept moving, and this is not what the soldier was used to. They'd given him a target, a simple target. They hadn't cared if he makes a mess they just wanted him _dead_. The soldier obeyed, found him, he blew up the car. He went to him and the man was gone, burnt through the ground like it was nothing. He'd failed.

The soldier has never failed.

He expected punishment; he presented himself for it, head down, back bared, ready for the burn. They didn't punish him, they just told him _make it stick this time_. They gave him new guns and sent him on his way. He tracked the man to an apartment building, laid in wait for the perfect moment. He blasted three holes directly through the wall, he heard the man scream even over the scratchy sounds of old music. He ran and then there was a man chasing him, a man with a round shield and blond hair (pretty – no, no what thought is that? You don't think soldier, _you d_ o) and fast enough to nearly catch him. He snatched be shield out of the air and threw it back with force enough to send the blond man sliding and jumped from the rooftop. He became a shadow, and he fled.

Mission report. They'd asked.  
Target eliminated.

They didn't freeze him afterward like they usually did. They gave him another mission. Two people this time, eliminate immediately, witnesses don't matter. Just do the job. The woman had shot at him, damaged his goggles and he felt annoyance flare up in him and shot wildly at her. Sloppy. He tried to blow her up and she was on his damn shoulders, with a garrote at his neck until he'd flung her into a car. He remembered her; he'd shot her before, because she was in the way. He wanted to finish her this time. He was ordered to finish her.

And then _he_ showed up. The blond man with the shield (pretty, so pretty why did the soldier find him so pretty? Stop, soldier, don't think, just do) and they fought fiercely. He was strong that man, strong and fast like the soldier and he was hard to beat. He'd thrown him for a loop, attacking with his fists and the shield. He hauled the soldier over his shoulders, threw him damn near across the road. His mask went flying as he rolled to his feet. That pretty blond gaped at him, his eyes all wide and scared.

"Bucky?"

 _Snap_. A string attached to his programming broke away. He knew that name? Why did he know that name?

"Who the hell is Bucky?"

He knew that name. It struck some familiar chord in his head, something he hadn't felt in ages. A memory that belonged to him.

Something had hit him from behind, and he rolled away from it, pointing his gun at that stricken blond man, who looked so shocked, so deep in disbelief that he couldn't move. Did the soldier know that face? Were those eyes familiar? Who is Bucky? The explosion stopped him from thinking. He had to go, he had to get away from this place.

He'd failed. Again.

He was vaguely aware of the doctors working on his arm when he returned to the base; his mind was far away, back on the bridge with that man and his pretty face. Why did he know that face? The soldier dug deep through the scramble of his memories, aching inside and sweating as he tried to think, tried to overcome the complicated weave of blurry kills and electroshock in his head. Someone was speaking to him, asking him a question but he wouldn't answer. That wasn't important to him. He _knew_ that man. He remembered that. He knew that man and he needed to know why.

"The man on the bridge. Who was he?" The soldier asked.

The response he got was a lie, he could tell. They taught him how to catch lies a long time ago. He didn't press, didn't want the punishment. All he said was: "I knew him."

He was still far away when they shoved the bite block in his mouth and the restraints clamped down over his arms. The chair lowered backward and the shocks were devastating, burning away that pretty blond man who was so familiar. Just when his identity was on the tip of his tongue. Just like that, he was gone again.

Soldier. Ready to comply.

The soldier brought down the man with the metal wings he wasn't an issue. It's the red, white, and blue one he's after.

"People are gonna die, Buck," he said. "I can't let that happen."

Threads had started snapping at a rapid rate, whenever the man spoke to him. The soldier was confused, but there was a mission to complete. It was another brutal fight, the soldier fired four shots into that red, white, and blue body and that hadn't kept him down. Even with his dislocated elbow he was a better shot than most but they'd only slowed him down.

Then the explosions started. He was trapped under some heavy metal frame. He'd _screamed_. Why did he scream? The soldier doesn't scream, the soldier doesn't feel pain ( _Bucky feels pain, who the hell is Bucky_?). The man had lifted the structure off of him, enough so he could crawl from underneath it. He'd _saved_ him. The soldier did not need saving, if he'd failed so spectacularly, he should die ( _Bucky needed to be saved. Who the hell is Bucky_?) after such a failure. He'd used his metal arm to try and break the blond's face apart but he just wouldn't die. The threads kept snapping and things kept rushing back. He'd seen that face in this state before, bloodied and bruised. _Who are you_? _Who am I_?

"Finish it. Cos I'm with you to the end of the line."

He was falling. Plunging toward the water.

Steve was falling.  
Steve. His Steve.  
 _No_. Save him.

The soldier (Bucky?) jumped after him and dragged him out of the river, resting him gently on the slope of the riverbank. He was breathing, _Steve_ was breathing. Steve and his sweet face, his lips just parted, barely breathing, so familiar. Why did he know this?

He walked away. Not the soldier, not Bucky, a shell of both is those things. A confused mass of man and metal. He couldn't go back to HYDRA, no, not after he'd realized what precious thing they'd taken from him.

He became the ghost again. A story that doesn't exist.


	5. Chapter 5

Bucharest was nice, it was quiet and the space he inhabited was remote enough that no one bothered him. Hiding from HYDRA was easier than he imagined, maybe it was possible because he'd hidden so many of his own quiet little safe houses all over the world. Places they didn't know about from moments when he was lucid in his own mind and knew he had to get out somehow. The apartment wasn't anything special, a little thing where the only room was a bathroom and everything else was laid out plain on the one floor. He had a mattress that was good enough and there were loose boards in the floor where he tucked his bug-out bag, just in case. He'd hidden money there, money he didn't remember having or how he got it. Perhaps he pinched it from a target. They never searched him after missions, just usually put him back on ice and sometimes he woke up with frozen coins in his pockets or tucked inside his boots.

Before he came to Bucharest, he'd explored that museum in Washington, seeing Steve's face in an exhibit, learning how he, too, had lived under ice for decades. He saw photos of Steve when he was smaller and sickly and he remembered that face. He remembered what it was like to hold that tiny body against his own; he remembered that Steve used to shake because he was so cold.

Sometimes the sad remains of his left arm tingled under the metal. The nerves that they'd attached to the cybernetic thing twitching with memory. He wondered how he lost part of that arm; he vaguely remembered that it had hurt.

One night he woke up, screaming and drenched in a cold sweat. He saw the faces of three people in his dream, an old woman and man and a young girl, no more than eight. Dead. Blank eyes staring in horror with bullet holes in their foreheads. Collapsed on the ground with soldiers all around them. He remembered feeling angry, feeling sick, wanting vengeance. Very suddenly, he remembered Annabelle, the sweet little thing that liked to draw with him on Saturday mornings. HYDRA had taken her from him, too.

He was a wreck; he didn't eat for three days after that. He'd tried, but had thrown up everything he tried to ingest. The memories were simply too foul for his mind.

He'd been hiding for two years, in Bucharest for about two months before everything changed. He returned to his apartment one day from the market with fresh fruit and some meats for the next couple of days and there was a man standing in his kitchen. He wasn't alarmed (and that confused him), the man had a familiar build, broad shoulders and chest and a slim waist. Blond hair poked out of the back of his hat. He had his head down, maybe looking at something and he noticed the book was missing from the top of the refrigerator. That made him nervous. Was he looking through that notebook? With the pictures of Steve shoved in the pages, the letters and memories scratched hastily inside.

"What are you doing here?" He asked.

The man stiffened, turning around slowly. He dropped the book on the counter and a picture of Steve fluttered out. The man's face went a little pink.

He'd been looking at a picture of himself. Steve was here. How the hell did he find him?

"Do you know me?" Steve asked.

"You're Steve," he said (who was he? Was he Bucky? Was he the soldier?), holding Steve's gaze. "I've seen you before."

"Do you remember me?" Steve asked, his voice breaking.

"Some... I remember some of you."

"Bucky... I-I thought you were dead..."

"I was. I should have been."

"You disappeared. I thought I'd never see you again," Steve said and his eyes were wet, was he crying? How long and it been since he'd seen someone cry? "And then there you were... but it wasn't you."

He shook his head. "I don't know what I am. Or who I am. Am I Bucky?"

"Yes," Steve breathed. "You've always been Bucky."

"No. I was the soldier. I wasn't Bucky then. Зимний солдат. That's what they called me."

"Winter soldier?" Steve asked, tilting his head just slightly.

He felt a strange ache in his chest. "You... you can speak Russian?"

If Steve could speak Russian, Steve could say the words. He could control him. Maybe he'd be better in Steve's control.

"No, not really. I know a few words," Steve said softly. "But _soldat_ sounds like soldier and Winter Soldier is what they called you around here, too."

He exhaled ( _was that what relief felt like_?) and moved closer to Steve, cautiously. "I need your help."

"Anything," Steve said immediately. "Whatever you need, Bucky."

He frowned. "Am I Bucky?"

"Yes," Steve looked like he was crying again. He didn't like to see that. "You're Bucky."

"Make me him again," he said, staring imploringly into Steve's impossibly blue eyes. "Please. I need to be him again."

"I can't make you into anything," Steve said.

"Yes you can," he insisted. "They did it. You can do it too."

"I'm not going to do that to you."

He felt fury in his chest and clenched his metal hand. "Why? I want to be good. I want to be good again. Please."

The soldier would never have begged he would have hated himself for that. But whoever he was now, he wasn't above it. He would beg, he'd plead with Steve to fix him. Whatever the cost.

"The way they made you the soldier was wrong, Buck," Steve said. "I will help you, but I won't do it that way. I'll help you remember, but I won't hurt you."

"Why?"

"You don't hurt people you love." Steve said.

His eyes widened. "You... you love me?"

"Yes. I have every day of my life since I was ten years old," Steve said. "I know you don't remember what we've been through together or what we were to each other but... we'll get there. I'll help you remember, or at least I'll do my best."

"Thank you," he murmured.

Steve nodded. "I have an idea... how do you say whiskey in Romanian?"

His mouth turned up at the corners. A smile? How long had it been since he'd done that? He smiled because it was actually a silly question, it made him feel good to be able to tell Steve something, even if it was the easiest thing.

"Whiskey." He said.

Steve flushed. "Oh. Hm, well how about honey?"

He thought for a moment. " _Miere_."

He listened to Steve say it, liked the way the word rolled out of his mouth. He liked Steve's voice, deep and comforting, and god Steve was just so pretty. He remembered thinking that, two years ago when he was the soldier, thinking Steve was pretty and not knowing why. Well, no, not really. The why was easy; Steve had pretty blue eyes and pretty blond hair. His face was pretty, strong angles and high cheekbones with soft-looking skin. No, he knew, logically, why he thought Steve was pretty but he couldn't understand why he'd thought it at the time he had.

"Buck? You with me?"

He blinked, jarred out of his thoughts. "Yes."

"Is there a store nearby? I wanna get a few things."

"Yeah. Two blocks down, on your left." He said.

Steve nodded. "Okay. I'm gonna go, real quick. You gonna be here when I get back?"

"Not leaving," he said. "I'll be here."

Steve stared at him for a moment, like he wasn't quite sure if he believed him before he nodded and left the apartment quietly. He moved toward the kitchen, picking up the picture of Steve that had dropped out of the notebook. He liked Steve much better the way he saw him now, without that silly helmet covering that pretty face.

Steve was gone for a total of fifteen minutes. He came easing back into the apartment with a big, brown paper bag on his hip, rustling softly as he walked. He was at the stove, stirring soup in a pot. It was something he'd gotten used to eating since he'd been in Romania, sour and warm, it tasted good and kept for a while so he could eat it for at least a week.

"Do you have cups?" Steve asked.

He pointed to the cabinet behind him with his metal hand. "Up there. There's... at least one. Maybe a bowl or two."

Steve nodded and sat the paper bag down on the counter. He could feel, could sense Steve moving around behind him. He kept his eyes trained on the pot in front of him, listening to the sounds Steve made as he moved around. He heard the _pop_ of a cork from a bottle, the hiss of something carbonated. He could hear the glasses clattering gently as Steve pulled them down from the cabinet and sat them on the counter.

"Got a spoon?" Steve asked.

"Drawer on your right." He said.

He had about six utensils. Two knives, two spoons, two forks. Not that he was ever expecting company, but because sometimes he just didn't feel like cleaning his dishes. He heard the delicate clinking of the spoon in the glass as Steve stirred whatever he was making. He backed away from the stove, leaning against the counter just inches from Steve. Steve handed him a glass full of dark amber colored liquid that had a light, foamy fizz on top.

"Try it." Steve said.

He hesitated before bringing the cup to his nose to smell. It was sharp from the alcohol but almost familiar. He sipped from the glass; whiskey burned his throat but it was smoothed over by the honey and soda water. It was good, a little warm, but it tasted nice. The taste made him think of Brooklyn, a little bar in 1941, and Steve being smaller than he was now.

"This is good." He murmured.

"Do you remember this?" Steve asked.

"Maybe? A little... it tastes familiar." He said.

"It was the last drink we had together before you were supposed to leave for basic," Steve whispered.

He sipped the drink again, thinking, carefully sifting through memories that were jumbled on top of one another. He'd remembered weeks ago that he was supposed to have joined the army but he'd never made it but he couldn't remember why.

"Why didn't I go? I can't remember." He said.

Steve frowned, shifting to face him. "There was a fight, Buck. We were in this bar the day before you left, just having drinks nice and easy and this gal walked up..."

He groaned like he'd been hit. "Lisa. Her name was Lisa."

"Yeah, it was. What else do you remember?" Steve asked.

"I-I remember being in an alley with you," he rubbed his metal fingers over his forehead, trying to push away the other rushing memories so he could think straight. "You were littler... a lot littler."

Steve chuckled softly. "I was."

"I... we, we were kissing," he murmured, brows furrowed in thought. "And then these goons showed up. They hurt me, but... I wouldn't let them hurt you."

Steve nodded. "You protected me, like you always did."

"I didn't want them to hurt you. You were too good, too small. They would have killed you," he said, memories flooding in with the taste of honeyed whiskey. "I loved you, the little you."

Steve made a sound like he'd been punched. He looked to Steve, and his eyes were a little wet again. Had he said something wrong? Did he upset him? Why was he crying again?

"I don't remember anything else," he said softly. "Not right now."

"It's okay Buck," Steve said, his voice sad and choked. "You did good. You did real good."

* * *

Steve had offered to find another place to sleep for the night if it made him uncomfortable to be in the same place. He refused, he wanted Steve close, needed him there, but there was a certain hazard to him at night. More often than not, he had vivid, crushing nightmares. He woke up screaming and flailing and he was afraid of what the metal monster on his left side might do with another person so close by. Steve offered to stay awake, he didn't need much sleep as it was and frequently operated on much less than the basic needs of even his super soldier body.

He always slept in his clothes and shoes; it was easier that way if he needed to leave quickly. Steve had cast him a sidelong glance when he crawled into his sleeping bag fully dressed but seemed to catch the reason quickly. Steve had nodded, understanding, and wished him a good sleep.

Like that would actually happen.

He dreamed of punches and kicks in a dirty New York alley. Of a broken arm and cracked ribs and filthy insults thrown at him. He dreamed of screaming himself raw so Steve would go; get away from the pain in front of him. He dreamed of the threats leveled against him and his _boyfriend_ in 1941 when they could have gone to jail for what they were. He dreamed of running away, crushed inside because he couldn't go back, because he'd never see Steve again. He dreamed of the bus and the nice old man who drove it, his sweet wife who patched him up and called him James. He dreamed of Annabelle, the sweet thing, who always smiled at him and kissed his right elbow (that's only as tall as she was), and called him her friend. He dreamed of his left arm and could smell the infection in his sleep, cloying and stinking like death. He dreamed of the day they'd taken it off, being dizzy and crazy with fever and John, the nice old man who took care of him, being beside him when he woke up. He dreamed of Martha and the story of Annabelle's parents and her telling him to find Steve and never let him go again.

He dreamed again of the monsters that took them from him. The monsters that made him the soldier.

He was screaming when he woke up, sitting upright and panting. Steve was beside him in an instant, easing onto the side of the bed, reaching out for him. He jumped when Steve's hand made contact with his shoulder. It was so light, so innocent and foreign that it scared him.

"Hey. Hey, you're alright Bucky. It's okay," Steve whispered, squeezing his shoulder gently. "It's just a dream. You're okay."

He scooted away from Steve's touch, frowning at Steve's hurt expression. No one had touched him with such gentleness in over seventy years and he didn't trust it to continue to be such a sweet, soft thing.

"Please don't touch me," he murmured, shaking. "I'm not ready for you to touch me yet."

Steve made that awful I've-just-been-hit noise again but nodded solemnly and stood up again, backing away. "I'm sorry."

He cringed; that was mean of him. He wanted Steve nearby. He _wanted_ Steve to touch him but it all felt wrong. He was always going to be waiting for the pain, for the sting that came along with touch.

"No... not your fault. It's me," he mumbled. "Everyone who touches me hurts me. I'm waiting for it to hurt."

"I'm not gonna hurt you, Buck," Steve said. "I promise."

He nodded. "Come back? Please?"

Steve moved slowly back to the bed and eased down next to him. They sat with their backs against the wall. Steve was pressed lightly against his right side, thigh-to-thigh, shoulder-to-shoulder. They were touching, but not skin on skin, blocked by fabric. His skin itched to touch Steve's to see if it was still soft like he suddenly remembered.

"What did you dream about?" Steve asked.

"That day in Brooklyn," he said. "Those guys that beat me up..."

"Do you remember where you went?" Steve asked.

He nodded. "I got on a bus. This nice old guy just stopped. I was sitting at a bus stop, bleeding and bruised up. He took me to his house and his wife patched me up. They had a little granddaughter. Her name was Annabelle, she reminded me of my little sister," he swallowed, exhaling harshly. "My arm was broken and cut up. The woman... her name was Martha; she tried to fix it and plaster it so the break didn't get worse. The plaster made my arm infected, it stank so bad. They took it off from the elbow down. They had to, or the infection would have killed me."

He heard Steve gulp beside him. "I'm sorry Buck. That's terrible."

He shrugged. "Long time ago. But they took care of me and they were good people. Annabelle wanted to meet you. She always said you sounded nice, and that we belonged together because she thought I was nice too and nice people should be together. HYDRA killed them all."

Steve made a sound like he might be sick. "God I'm so sorry."

"They took me that day," he said, staring far away, remembering. "But I remember... Martha made me promise her something. Because her daughter... she was like us. Her husband killed her because he caught her kissing a girl. Martha wanted to help because she understood. She made me promise I'd find you and I'd hold on to you."

"Well, I found you. All you have to do is hang on," Steve said, reaching cautiously for his hand. "I'm not leaving you. Not ever again."

He stared down at Steve's upturned hand and slowly rested his in top of Steve's. Steve's hand was different than he remembered, so much bigger and thicker than it used to be. His fingers used to be skinny and cold and always streaked with black from the pencils he drew with. Now Steve's hand was warm and solid underneath his and Steve curled their fingers together. Steve's hands were a little calloused from where his gloves rubbed when he was fighting. He squeezed Steve's hand gently, enjoying the feel of flesh on flesh.

"That was the day that HYDRA took me. I don't remember where they did it or why they were in Jersey but... they said something about finding able bodied people."

"They were trying to recreate the serum they used on me," Steve whispered. "They knew our side had me, they had a super soldier and their side wanted more than one. They wanted them to be stronger than me."

He nodded. "They injected me with stuff, a serum like yours. I was the first, really. But there's more, I'm sure of it. I've fought them."

"Are they still alive?" Steve asked.

"I don't know. Maybe," he said, frowning and squeezing Steve's hand. "They're frozen like I was as far as I can remember. Which isn't very reliable."

"It's okay Bucky," Steve said gently. "You're doing great."

He tried to smile, but his face didn't quite work that way anymore. "You were my boyfriend. When you were small. We were together, we lived together. I loved you."

"Do you not love me anymore?" Steve asked.

He shrugged. "I don't know. I don't know you. I don't even know me. It's not personal..."

"I know. I'm sorry," Steve said, rubbing his thumb along the top of his. "I-I still love you. Just so you know. I never stopped."

He made a face, surprised and a little disgusted. "Why?"

"I'm always gonna love you, Buck," Steve said. "I've loved you as long as I can remember. It's just the way it is."

"You shouldn't," he said, shaking his head. "I'm a monster. I've done so much bad... I can't come back from that."

"I don't believe that," Steve said. "You weren't you that whole time. You didn't have a choice. You couldn't say no."

"Does it really matter? I still did it," he said. "I'm not good."

Steve shook his head. "I don't believe that either. I know you, Bucky. You're not bad, not really. HYDRA made you bad but deep down; you're still the same old Bucky. You might not remember it but you are. You keep remembering things from before because you're still you, underneath all that HYDRA crap."

He glanced over at Steve, startled by those bright blue eyes and the honesty reflected in them. "I want to believe you... but I've been the soldier for so long... I don't know what it's like to be Bucky anymore."

"I'll help you," Steve said. "I'm not gonna let you go. You made a promise and I made one too. That I'd see you again and I'd tell you how much I love you and missed you. We can do this together, Buck. I just need you to be on board with me."

"Okay," he said, nodding slowly. "I'm with you."


	6. Chapter 6

Steve stayed with him in Bucharest for two weeks. It was not without challenge that they lived in such close quarters as they were today. Both big and taking up more room than they ever had before. It got under his skin sometimes, that Steve was so close and just so goddamn good all the time. Sometimes he'd ignore Steve when he was talking, just to see if he could get him to lose his temper, even a little bit. It was something he remembered doing from a long time ago. It was something that made Steve's pale eyebrows push in and his bottom lip poke out like he was pouting for not being listened to. It was funny, and cute, and he liked making Steve do things that were funny and cute.

Like when Steve blushed and looked away any time he came out of the shower without a shirt on, or when he'd watch him pull his hair back into that tight little ponytail that he'd finally gotten Steve to admit he thought was nice. Over the weeks he remembered Steve being shy, but still a little roguish and rough around the edges. There were certain times when Steve could be a demanding little punk, but he hadn't seen that, just remembered it one night when he was pouring soup into a bowl.

He was watching Steve through a hole in the newspaper that covered the window of the door as he paced on the little balcony, his phone pressed to his ear. He looked annoyed and kept pinching his nose and rubbing his forehead. He wondered who Steve was talking to, probably someone from back home, demanding to know where in the world their national hero had disappeared to. Steve had slipped out while he was napping, trying to be as quiet as he could, but he was a light sleeper. He'd heard the door open and close despite how Steve tried to ease it shut. He could hear snatches of what Steve was saying, but only Steve. If they'd been in the same room, he'd be able to hear the other person on the line. That cursed super soldier hearing.

Steve looked exhausted like he'd run a marathon in his skinny body when he came back inside. His forehead was a little red from rubbing it so often and he could even tell his teeth were on edge.

"You alright?" He asked.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." Steve murmured.

"You're a bad liar," he said, moving to sit on the bed. "What's wrong?"

"Some crisis appearance or something. They want the captain," Steve sighed. "I said no. I've got something more important to do."

He let his jaw hang, shocked. "Why would you do that?"

"Because you getting better is my priority. Short of another alien invasion, I'm not leaving you." Steve said.

He composed his face, fixing it into a frown. "I don't understand you."

"Till the end of the line, pal," Steve said with a nonchalant shrug. "We're not at the end yet."

He sighed heavily, inching back to lean against the wall and beckoning Steve closer with his metal hand. Steve joined him; sitting thigh-to-thigh through their jeans again because that's all the touch he could bear today. He felt stiff and awkward and like he might snap at Steve if he touched him any more.

"If you have to go... if you have to be the captain, it's alright," he said. "That's your job."

"Maybe I've had enough of it being my job, Buck," Steve sighed; he ruffled his own hair with his right hand. "It's been over seventy years since I've had a life of my own that wasn't dictated by being ordered around or giving other people orders. I've been America's property since I was hardly an adult. I was twenty-one when I got the serum, I've belonged to America since I was twenty-one years old. What if I don't want it anymore, Buck? What if I just want to be Steve?"

He huffed, nodding with understanding. "I know what it's like not to be yourself anymore. When do you think was the last time I was your Bucky?"

"That day you left," Steve whispered. "After the fight."

"Wasn't much of a fight," he mumbled. "Just three guys kicking my ass. If they weren't dead from age already I'd track them down and kill them myself for threatening you."

Steve touched his forearm, a gentle press of his fingers against metal. He snatched his arm away, moving to put a little more space between them.

"Sorry," Steve murmured.

"Not today... please. I'm not feeling touchy today." He said.

Steve nodded. "I wouldn't want you to kill anybody for me, Buck..."

"You think I haven't done that already?" He snorted, shaking his head. "You think I wouldn't absolutely annihilate anyone who tried to hurt..."

He stopped abruptly, shaking his head. This was the soldier talking, the menace and strength. Sure, the man named Bucky buried deep inside would throw a punch or two for Steve; he'd take a punch or two for him, too. But the soldier? With these memories, he'd rip America to shreds for exploiting what was _his_.

Oh. That's a new and interesting thought, isn't it? All this time, all these years Steve had been his, and in a sick sort of way, he'd belonged to Steve too. Steve's memories of him were the only thing that kept that Bucky alive, the only thing that broke the soldier. Steve had managed to jab a giant delete button in his head with just a few words. He still wasn't sure if he was happy about that or not. Now he had to try and live up to Steve's aggressively nostalgic standards that was the old Bucky and he wasn't even sure who that man was anymore.

"I'm not sure I know who your Bucky is anymore," he said lowly, dipping his head so his hair covered his face. "It's a lot, ya know, to try and be him again. He's a lot to live up to."

"So don't," Steve said, shrugging. "Make a new Bucky. You don't have to be exactly the person you were..."

"That's not what you want though." He said.

"Doesn't matter what I want," Steve said. "It's what you want. It's who you want to be. You're not just the soldier anymore, Buck. You're a man who's been through hell and back for far too long. Your life belongs to you now and you do with it what you choose."

"I don't know what I want," he said. "Tell me what to do."

"No." Steve said flatly.

He whipped his stare over to Steve's face, a little hardened but still compassionate. His blue eyes were fiery in a way he vaguely remembered.

"What?"

"I said no," Steve said, his voice slipping into that firm, Captain America tone before he shook himself and corrected it. He was Brooklyn Steve again, sweet and understanding. "I'm not telling you who to be and what to do. I'm not giving you orders. You are your own man now. You get to live how you want. Who do _you_ want to be?"

He thought for a long moment, chewing the inside of his cheek. He whispered: "I just want to be yours."

Steve's face looked like it had just cracked. It melted into a sad smile and his eyes wetted up quick.

"Bucky..."

"You're the only thing that anchors me. For the last two weeks here I've remembered more about my life before all this than ever," he said. "It's still hard to try and be that guy that you love so much. I think those parts of me are broken beyond repair... but... I just don't want to be in this stupid world without your stupid punk face anymore."

Steve laughed, a deep, chesty sound that made him smile along. "That sounds a bit like the Bucky I know," Steve sighed, still smiling. "But listen. If you don't wanna be that Bucky anymore, that's fine. Make yourself a new Bucky, and I'll love your stupid jerk face all the same."

* * *

"Steve... come over here."

For four days he'd been curious about kissing Steve. He knew, through the memories they'd uncovered together that they'd been a couple, even if their relationship was illegal in those days, they'd still done it. They'd loved and kissed and touched and had sex (the thought of sex however, was far, far from his comfort level) and had been a real, loving couple.

It took him four days to work up the energy to want to be kissed. Four days to shut down the screaming in the back of his head that said he didn't deserve it. Four days to steel himself for that much touch, that level of intimacy.

Steve had been sitting at the table near the wall, tinkering away at his phone when he called him from the tiny kitchen. He sat his phone down and crossed the space to stand in front of him, tilting his head just slightly in question.

"I need you to stand still," he said, heart hammering. "Don't move or I might hit you."

Steve quirked an eyebrow, half confused, half amused. "That's an odd request."

He flapped his flesh hand at him, his face scrunching up in mild annoyance. "Just shut up and stay still."

Steve shrugged, nodding as he slipped into an eerie stillness. His posture was straight, but relaxed, non-threatening. The only sounds he could hear was the thundering of his heart in his chest as he inched closer to Steve's lips, light pink and slightly parted. He leaned in; summoning the courage he'd built over the last four days and pressed his mouth against Steve's. He didn't really know how to kiss anymore, not the way he used to. It was a clunky thing, awkward lips on awkward lips and noses smooshed together. Steve's lips tasted like waxy chapstick and the apple he'd eaten earlier.

He felt Steve's arm move, _don't do it, don't touch me any more, do not touch me any more this is all I can handle at once_. But that stupid punk put his stupid hand on his cheek and he reacted without thinking. He clenched his flesh fist and sunk it into Steve's gut. Air whooshed out of Steve and he jumped back toward the balcony door, glaring.

"I told you stay still." He growled.

Steve huffed, his hand pressed against his midsection. "Sorry. Guess was hoping it'd stay a might on the hitting."

He laughed, a foreign sound in his ears. When was the last time he laughed? "You don't ever listen, do you?"

"I've been told a time or two that I'm a little impaired in the listening to suggestions department," Steve said. "You didn't hit me very hard."

"Pulled it," he said, shrugging his metal shoulder. "And I hit you with the human arm. Woulda broke your ribs if I used the other one."

"You're so kind," Steve joked, smiling that stupid goofy Steve smile. God he wanted to punch him and kiss him all over again. "Can I come kiss you?"

He made an awkward motion with his head, somewhere between yes and no and Steve laughed through his nose and approached very slowly. When they were standing face to face again, he could see the gentleness in Steve's eyes, it eased the gripping fear in his chest.

"What can you handle?" Steve asked.

"One touch at a time," he mumbled. "Either kiss me or touch me. Don't do both."

Steve smiled a little. "I have to touch you to kiss you, dummy."

He shoved him a little with his flesh arm. "You know what I mean. Kiss me but don't but your hands on me, that's too overwhelming."

Steve nodded and swooped down slowly to capture him in a kiss again. This one was better, softer, and a little less awkward. He liked the way Steve kissed, he decided. It was slow and easy and sweet. Steve tilted his head just so, slotting their lips together more evenly and well, that was _good_ , that was very good. He moaned a little against Steve's mouth and that shocked him, that foreign sound, but he was too busy being absorbed in Steve's lips to catalog the thought of strange sounds coming from his mouth. He leaned further in, and Steve, true to his honorable code, remained still and only touched him with his mouth. His body wanted more, wanted Steve to wrap those big arms around him and crush him close but his mind belayed the desire. _You really wanna go crazy? Let him trap you against a wall with those big soldier arms, see how that goes_. The idea was both terrifying and titillating.

In the back of his head he remembered kissing Steve like this a long time ago. Almost literally sucking the air out of his lungs (not a hard feat, Steve's asthmatic lungs were fragile), and threading his hands in that messy blond hair. Holding his tiny body just up off the ground while they kissed and kissed like time meant nothing.

He pulled away and Steve let him, backing up a half step to give him a little more space to breathe. His breathing was a little erratic and his heart was still hammering in his ears. Steve was red-faced and biting his bottom lip across from him, looking a vision of shy innocence. _What a lie_.

"Was that okay?" Steve asked.

He nodded, feeling his face grow warm. "Very."

He heard Steve exhale, saw the rigidness in his posture relax as he eased a little further away to lean against the counter behind him.

"Are you alright?" Steve asked.

He blinked, tilting his head at Steve. He was smiling? _What was it like to smile_? "I'm fine. I liked it. Made me remember old times. We used to do that a lot, didn't we?"

Steve rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. "Yeah, we did."

He nodded. "That and a lot more. But I'm not ready for that."

He didn't think it was possible for Steve's face to get any redder, but it did. He fumbled over his words. "Buck... that's... we, I mean you don't have to do anything you don't want–"

He really laughed then, even if the sound shook him a little, it felt good to laugh. "Steve relax. There's a lot of things I remember about us now and that's just one of them. They're good memories. It's a weird good though because you were small and I remember thinking that I'd hurt you."

Steve huffed and rolled his eyes. "Jerk. You never hurt me. You were always good about it. Plus, I'm a lot less breakable now, and I mean, I can breathe much better too."

He smiled, remembering the times when he'd been nearly too far gone with pleasure to hear the rattle in Steve's lungs when he was moaning and panting and the way Steve would smack his arm if he stopped to check on him.

"Hey Steve." He said.

"Yeah?"

"I think... I think I like Bucky," he said. "I like being him a lot more than the soldier, and a lot more than James."

Steve raised an eyebrow. "How was James different?"

"He cried a lot," he snorted a little laugh through his nose. "When I was in Jersey, they called me James. I didn't want anyone to call me Bucky anymore that was just for you. He was what I was after I had to leave. I didn't like that."

Steve gave him a soft smile. "I like you no matter who you are."

He wrinkled his nose. "Even the soldier?"

"Maybe not so much when you shot me," Steve laughed. "But the uniform looked good on you."

"Pervert."

Steve shrugged. "I am what I am."

"And here I thought you were supposed to be the American paragon of chaste wholesomeness." He smiled.

"Please," Steve snorted. "Imagine the reaction if America knew their paragon of chaste wholesomeness had only ever been with a man his entire life. I'm sure a few heads would come unscrewed."

"Would you tell people?" He asked.

"If it didn't make you uncomfortable," Steve said. "The Captain America half of my life is kind of a circus. Privacy isn't much of a commodity with that."

He grimaced. "Privacy is kinda the key to my continued survival. I'm pretty sure if they found out you were here with me they'd be sending the Calvary to take my head off and lock you up because you're insane enough to be fraternizing with the Winter Soldier."

"You're not the Winter Soldier anymore, Buck," Steve said sternly. "Sure, that's part of your past, but that's not you right now. You don't ever have to be that again."

"I don't want to be the soldier ever again," he said, shaking his head. "I want to be Bucky again, the new Bucky. A good one."

"And you will be," Steve said. "I'm with you the whole way."

When he smiled this time, it was Bucky's smile, that old, easy thing with light in his eyes and a little dimple in his left cheek. He could be Bucky again, he _would_ be Bucky again. The Winter Soldier was dead, and he'd do anything to keep it that way.


End file.
